


She is Marked and Undone

by escritoireazul



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Drowning, Fire, Gen, Hair Brushing, Hauntings, Shadows - Freeform, Trick or Treat: Extra Treat, Trick or Treat: Trick, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-04 14:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escritoireazul/pseuds/escritoireazul
Summary: Betty remembers, and sees, and dreams.





	She is Marked and Undone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bloodredcherries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodredcherries/gifts).



Betty will never forget that moment at Pop’s when Veronica sauntered into their lives, her cloak dramatic around her, dark hair and bright eyes against the flow of it. Will never forget that jealousy, bitter on the back of her tongue, when she saw the way Archie looked at Veronica. Her envy when Veronica looked back.

Betty will never forget the first time Veronica kissed her, at cheerleader tryouts, Cheryl so sharp and angry in front of them. She could feel the smear of Veronica’s lipstick across her mouth. Her heart pounded, her breath came fast. She’d been working out. It wasn’t the kiss. It wasn’t Cheryl attacking her. She cut her own palms, dug her nails in sharp, but none of it was anger, none of it was lust.

She is in control. She, Betty, is in _control_.

 

Betty puts her fingers into the candle flame. Pulls them out. Puts them into the flame. Pulls them out. The fire licks at her bare skin, catches against the edges of her nails. Her perfect nails, trimmed and buffed. Her fingers, long, rough in places. Scarred where she grabs things and digs them into her skin. Her palms are criss-crossed with tiny little healing cuts, her nails sharp-edged when she pushes hard enough.

Her wrists are smooth, pale and pristine. The insides of her thighs the same.

She digs in her nails, squeezes the edge of the scissors, presses her hand flat against a bit of rough metal. She is in control. She, _Betty_ , is in control.

 

“We’re meant to be best friends,” Veronica says. “I felt it the moment I saw you.”

Her lips are very red, her hair dark as night, her eyes sparkling. Betty breathes in and out, touches her fingers to the back of Veronica’s hand. There’s a whisper of a breeze near them, stirring crisp fallen leaves, moving little branches. They’re far into the forest, beneath the tall, dark trees, long shadows stretching toward them. They are together. They are alone. They are pretty little girls walking in the big bad woods.

Veronica’s smile is a wolf smile.

Betty wraps her fingers around Veronica’s wrist. Squeezes. Keeps her nails away from soft skin. She is in control. _She_ , Betty, is in control.

 

The wind spins around Betty’s legs, twisting her skirt. Clouds race across the sky, heavy with rain, the sky low and gray. Red leaves skitter toward her, the brightest color in all her world. With them comes a sound like footsteps, tentative and half-gone. She’s alone in front of her house. Archie’s window is dark. No lights shine in her own home.

A sigh brushes her cheek, and leaves spin at her feet.

She has no one to haunt her. Betty turns and turns again, ponytail swinging. Watches red leaves spill across the street, stretched long into the shadows.

 

Betty remembers that night in the locker room, Cheryl’s red hair and lips and nails the color of mourning and heartbreak and death. She remembers the way Cheryl clung to Veronica, their uniforms wet, their hair, the cheeks, rain water, maybe, or tears.

She wanted to go to them, to hold Cheryl despite how awful she’s been. To stroke her hair, to comfort her. She knows what it’s like to lose a sibling, another piece of you. At least there is the chance that Polly will come back.

Jason is gone, and Cheryl has no hope but to be haunted.

Betty turns, but there is no flash of red in the dark hallway, just shadows and beyond those close walls, pep rally noise.

And in the locker room, Cheryl’s head bent, red hair spilling down.

 

Betty stares at herself in the mirror, carefully runs the lipstick across her lips, deep red. Veronica’s color. There is movement at her window, a shadow at the edge of her sight. By the time she turns, it’s gone, but for a faded red leaf, caught on the sill.

She goes to it, touches one finger to its surface. It is wet, and cold, like the bottom of a river.

 

Polly brushes Betty’s hair. Betty watches them in the mirror, their sisterhood showing true, golden hair and pale skin and that Cooper softness to their cheeks. The brush Polly uses is bright red, and the color flashes out from between strands of Betty’s hair.

“Ring around the rosy,” Polly sings, low, and continues the song with a hum under her breath. Betty watches her, the slow movement of her hand, one long stroke after another, and wonders. Blossom twins tucked together, little babies curled between Polly and Jason. Cheryl there, somehow, always. Twins of twins, and Polly, and Betty left staring at her sister through a haze of red.

 

Pop’s stands out in Riverdale, a beacon in the darkness, red like the bright pulse of a heart. Betty stares at it. There’s blood on her palms, tears in her eyes. Betty stares in through the window, her friends gathered there in the bright light, her enemies. She can’t see, but maybe Polly’s in the corner.

Betty takes a breath, opens her hands. Red spills from her fingertips, crushed leaves and ripped hair and fabric torn in two; it stains the snow.

She’s marked the world, but it will melt. It will melt, and her mark will be gone, and Betty is not in control.

 

Betty is drowning, the dark water of Riverdale closing over her head, oxygen gone from her lungs, the last of her breath caught in the back of her throat. Her eyes drift closed, but just before her vision fades completely, she catches a flash of red.

_Veronica._

_Cheryl._

_Polly._

_Archie._

Cool hands touch her cheeks, lighter than air.

 

Betty opens her eyes, breath steady. The world is gray and blue and yellow, shadows and snow and sunlight. She hears her name and finds Veronica coming toward her, black cloak, white muff and winter cap standing out in stark contrast. She smiles, and her lips are red, but her cheeks are pink and her eyes are dark and her teeth are white. Her dress is green underneath her cloak.

She is awash with color, and so is the world.

Betty is not in control.

But she opens her hands, reaches for Veronica, is drawn into a hug and a laughing story and, in time, the sweet warmth of Pop’s, tucked into a booth at Veronica’s side.

Veronica.

Cheryl.

Polly.

Archie.

And through the glass, red across snow, shadows and light and then gone.

Betty smiles.


End file.
